Original Poem: Dinner with His Flowers

Dinner with His Flowers

I saw this tulip for the first time
one night after dinner.
At the time I was sinfully bloated to the seams with plump cheese filled dough
covered by a blanket of thick, red tomato filling.

It was then that I laid eyes on the tulip.
By candlelight it looked like a rose, only not as vain.
I reached up and rubbed my fingertip against its petal,
the outer layers were that of a woman’s lure;
the icebreaker, her dreams, her perfume, her mother, her father,
your first walk into her apartment and her whispering voice,
her soft hands.

My index finger and thumb moved in leisurely circles
as I sat mesmerized by the tulip’s beauty.
There was loveliness in imperfection,
a single petal bent backwards by gravity
and singed by the infringing, black solidness of death.

I drew my forefinger to the tulip’s depths-
Curious,
the center was so black and dark,
I could feel a smooth, ribbed piece somewhere inside
as my nail gently caressed the waxy, coated seeds.
My finger pulled slowly out of the tulip,
its petals shrank back to their original shape
like a doll’s hair.

I smelled my finger and rubbed it to my check,
the velvety redolence teased my senses
all I could think of was that portion inside the tulip
its simple, protected secret,
Its own.
I stared at the candle’s burning flame
and sighed. All I had done
was touch a flower.